BRYNDA "RAVEN EYE" TULLY
There was absolutely no fucking way she was going to let Hoster or their father get away with this. She would escape, even if she had to dig her way out of this cell with one of the spoons they provided at the meals.
Oswell Whent, her fellow 'prisoner' in the rather comfortably fitted dungeon whined from the cot he'd claimed for his own, "Stop pacing for one bloody minute, will you?"
"I'm not pacing! I'm examining the wall for where its weaknesses are!" insisted Brynda. But truly, Brynda felt trapped—she always paced when she felt trapped.
Oswell scoffed, "There are none, Harren the Black built the walls too damn thick. Short of dragonfire—we're not going anywhere, my lady."
"Don't call me that!" snapped Brynda, as she gave him a glare. She wasn't a lady. She had battle scars and callouses enough to prove it—and had she been a man, she would've been knighted along with this vain, glory-seeking rogue of House Whent, or mayhaps even before.
Oswell asked sardonically, "What would you prefer to be called, then? Wench?"
She was on top of him and throwing a punch at Oswell with her weak arm the next moment, which was deflected, but he missed the second one to his gut with her strong arm—like she had hoped.
Oswell attempted to push her off of him as he gasped out, "All right, wench it isn't, Raven Eye!"
Hearing the nickname she'd been given during the recent war when she'd bound her breasts, cut her hair, and called herself "Brynden Rivers" made her stop. At first she recalled how she'd been called that mockingly—simply due to the similarity of names held with that Targaryen Great Bastard of old. Later, when her skill with archery had been proven, the men on the campaign had switched to calling her that affectionately, that her eye was as sharp as a raven's—and her bow quite deadly. She couldn't tell how Oswell meant it—so she gave him a good knee to his side all the same.
"Then what in the name of the Seven Hells do you want to be called?" growled Oswell as he nursed his sores and aches
"I have a name, use it," she grunted as she took her seat by the table with a yellow table cloth embroidered with bats at the center of the cell.
He continued to moan and groan as he clutched his stomach and his side, to the point where it became rather unbelievable.
"That might have gotten you a wench in the Disputed Lands, but it won't do anything to me. So quit your mummer's farce and act like the knight you're supposed to be!" declared Brynda as she rested her boots on the table.
Oswell defended himself, "I'm not putting on a mummer's farce. You really have quite the arm behind you."
"Words are wind and flattery won't unlock the door," she said as she took a bite of a green apple—it was tart tasting, but an apple nonetheless.
He abandoned his pretentions, "Then how else do you expect us to leave this cell?"
She swallowed her apple bite and said, "We wait them out," before taking another bite.
Oswell broke into an uproarious laughter—one she had grown quite tired of hearing on campaign, and one that was even more irritating now. Grabbing another apple she tossed it at her cell mate, hitting him squarely in the shoulder, which seemed to knock some kind of sense into him.
He tried to speak as he recovered from laughing, eventually lowering his voice to a whisper only she could hear, "Pardon me… Brynda, but… once an idea has situated itself into my sister's head, there's no dislodging it. Minisa is as stubborn as a mule when she thinks she's in the right. If we're to ever convince her to unlock the cell door, we'll have to trick her and that servant of hers outside our cell into thinking we've agreed. Now, I'll go back to moaning and you can throw a fuss over me and we can start making a game of it for the rest of them."
He spoke rather too eagerly to play this game, but then he'd likely practiced it enough while on campaign with every tavern wench they passed in the Disputed Lands.
"While you know your sister, I know my father. Before he has either of us leave this cell he'll lock us in here with a Septon before letting us out, just to be safe!"
Reluctantly he seemed to give up his idea, suggesting, "Then we need to convince your brother to nab the key from my sister, then."
"Considering how mooney-eyed he was when he first saw her, I'd say the only thing keeping his cock in his pants is his honor. She likely has him around her little finger by now."
Why else would Hoster betray her like that? She'd crawled out of Harrenhal by the sewers into the Godseye and then swam to shore far enough to make a break for it into a nearby patch of woods, only to have Hoster there waiting. She'd saved his bloody life on the ship, and this was how he repaid her, by shackling her to the first man their father wanted her married to?
I should've let that pirate drive an ax into his thick head…
Almost immediately upon thinking it, Brynda hated herself for thinking it. She did not want that. Gods no, she didn't. Hoster had played swords with her first until he had thought himself too "grown up" to play with his "baby sister".
Unnoticed to her, Oswell had not laughed in response to her offhanded comment, like she had expected of him, but instead had stood, looking quite grim, his eyes narrowed at Brynda.
"My sister is an honest and honorable lady, and I'll not have you imply she's got any man wrapped around any finger of hers like some common…" he struggled to find the word he wanted to say next before landing on "…bawd!"
"I meant no insult to your sister," answered Brynda, feeling uneasy about Oswell's dark look at the moment.
"Your tone hinted otherwise," retorted Oswell.
Brynda snapped, feeling the need to match Oswell by standing and meeting his glare, "If I meant to insult anyone, it was my blockhead of a brother!"
At this Oswell's glare lessened, but he spoke, as if he were a child about ready to pout, "Good, for my sister's to be the Lady of Harrenhal with Walter's death."
"And here I thought my father wished to marry me to the newly minted Lord of Harrenhal?"
Oswell said quite simply and softly, "I don't want it."
"Truly? Why not?" she questioned, this being the first she'd ever heard of such a case beyond herself.
"It was always supposed to be Walter's—not mine. And besides, the castle's too bloody big and too damn expensive to keep up. It's brought every house that's owned it nothing but terrible luck and a bloody end, from Hoare to Lothstan."
She nearly broke into a peel of laughter, but stopped herself almost as soon as she had begun. He gave her a funny look.
She nearly blushed as she said, "Forgive me, but you don't seem the type to have paid attention to a Maester's lessons."
He looked a little hurt by her words, but only for an instant before he shook it off and added, "Yeah well, if your brother likes my sister as much as you say he does, then House Tully can have Harrenhal and keep it."
Feeling somewhat guilty for her slight towards his interests, she asked genuinely, "And what do you want to do, if not be a lord?"
"Just be a knight—mayhaps join the Kingsguard," he said rather nonchalantly, before adding, "but who knows what the future holds. You? What does the warrior maiden fish want from her life."
"To do as I fucking well please, and not play the damn game of thrones like every other lord and lordling does," she told him quite honestly.
Oswell smirked, "I guess that's what I want too—only I have a way to get out of it with either the Kingsguard or the Wall—gods help me. But you—if you wiggle yourself out of this marriage, surely your father and brother will try another?"
She spoke idly, "I'll go to Dorne or beyond the Wall if I have to. The Dornish have Nymeria and the Wildlings have their spear wives."
Oswell japed, "There's only the Antler to swim in north of the Wall—and a trout like you is like to freeze in those waters. You'd boil in the Greenblood in Dorne."
Brynda rolled her eyes at his attempt at humor and said "Then to Essos as Brynden Rivers. I'm not picky—just so long as I have a weapon in my hand."
"What if…" he began, but stopped himself short.
"What?" she asked when he failed to finish his thought for some time.
He asked tentatively, "What if you found a man who'd let you have your weapons?"
"Then I'd find the only man with some fucking common sense in all the world—a rarity to behold," she laughed.
He did not join her laughter so quickly, but he did after a moment.
"I'd more easily find a man who'd worry I'd beat him with my own hand with a weapon than let me keep them…"
And then it hit her.
"That's it."
"What's it?" asked Oswell.
"That's how we'll get out!"
Oswell bantered, "Forgive this bat for not following, but you're swimming in muddy waters, trout!"
She explained, "I'll tell my father that I'll marry you, only if you can beat me in an archery contest."
"And if I win?" asked Oswell with an odd look in his eye.
She assured him, "You won't—even if you did try you wouldn't win."
"I was trained by Lord Darry himself, I'll have you know!" puffed up Oswell.
"I'm sure you're a good shot," she groaned.
Oswell sat up on his cot in a more composed manner, "Good? I'm one of the best!"
She scoffed, "I didn't see that with all the sword waving you were doing in the war."
He protested, "One doesn't get onto the Kingsguard by archery alone."
She met him one and upped the ante, "No, one has to suck up to the King's favorites—kinda hard to do so when we get a new king and the favorites change, isn't it?"
"Just like one doesn't get to the far reaches of the Known World rotting in a cell!" he snapped back at her.
"This is beside the point—" she started.
"Agreed," chimed Oswell.
"Then you agree that I'll tell my father about the archery contest
Oswell countered, "Only one problem."
"What?" asked Brynda with potent aggravation.
He clarified, "What's to say they won't keep us locked up in here until the day of the contest?"
"What makes you think my father won't hold the contest immediately? He wants grandchildren from one of his children—Hoster if not me, the Gods know if Edwyn'll live long enough to have any."
Edwyn, her youngest brother, was her parent's last attempt to have a second son and secure the Tully line was a sickly boy, prone to an occasional shaking spell once in a blue moon. He'd killed their mother, and the maester had said Edwyn would be like to follow her shortly thereafter. But he hadn't. Edwyn had clung to life frantically, if weakly. He was a lonely child, Brynda had tried to play with him when she could, but her father always insisted she was a bit too rough for her younger brother. So she spent time with him as best she could—even if it was restricted to the walls of Riverrun and he wasn't allowed to swim in the waters of the Red Fork and the Tumblestone.
Oswell began, "This was Minisa's idea—locking us in a cell—she won't let up until she thinks it's done the trick. So they'll delay the contest until…"
"Until what?" asked Brynda.
"You know the answer," he said.
She also knew what would get him to go along with wounding his damn man's pride for losing to a woman. So, picking up a flagon that was on the table and grabbing two goblets she sighed poured wine into each and gave him the illusion of that at least, "Then we convince your sister that I might be coming around to the idea, but I am reluctant enough to want the contest."
Oswell smiled—though it never quite reached his eyes, "Exactly. That way, if they delay the contest for a while, at least we're out of this cell."
"Aye that we would," she agreed as she put down the flagon of wine.
She'd have to dote over the vain Bat of Harrenhal for a few days or a week at most—then play the contrary part that she actually didn't like him, then dote on him again, and so on and so forth like a bloody mummer, but it would "entertain" their family enough to let them out of the cell, and if they convinced them of it quickly enough, the contest would be held sooner and she'd beat his inflated smarmy head so well, that he'd never hear the end of it for the rest of his days.
"Then we ought to get to practicing," said Oswell, a bit too eagerly as he rearranged himself back into the position where he'd pretended to hold his sides and gut in pain.
"You might need the practice, but I won't perform this mummer's farce for free," she grunted, as she stood and took a goblet filled with wine in each hand.
"What do I need to practice for?" he asked, somewhat startled, sitting up as he took note of her approach.
She handed him his goblet and said, "Haven't you ever seen a mummer's show? It takes two to make a convincing relationship. If the one mummer does all the work, the piece falls flat."
He said stubbornly, "I'll play my part if you play yours. And what in the Seven Hells are we drinking to?"
She answered simply, "Our plan and our escape."
"Escape of what?" he pressed, before she had a chance to lift her goblet to her lips.
"From conventions," she replied.
He looked at her a moment oddly before smirking and saying, "Aye, that I'll drink to."
When Minisa, Father, Hoster, Edwyn, and the various servants arrived with their dinner, Oswell surprised her by playing his part before she had a chance to—holding out her chair for her like she was some bloody dragon princess. She was tempted to snap at Oswell, but he simply grinned at her, and she knew that she could not break character if she wanted to convince their families. So she accepted the chair like a lady would—earning her a shocked look from both her brothers, and a pleasantly surprised look from father. Minisa however, who sat between Father and Hoster, only stared at her suspiciously as she took her seat next to Oswell's. She jumped into her part, attempting to embarrass him by offering to cut his meat for him from the roast that had been brought in, pulling out her knife.
"I'm afraid I hurt his shoulder earlier… wouldn't want him to strain it," she explained with an overt sweetness that caused a serving girl standing at the edge of the cell to break into giggles until one of her fellow servers gave her a hard glance.
Oswell raised his eyebrows, as if to say she were playing her part too well.
It was her one and ten namedays brother who said what the rest of the family was thinking, "You're not ill, are you, Brynda?"
"I'm not bloody ill," replied Brynda, and a slight look of relief washed across her brother's face, but it didn't stay there for long, as if he wasn't truly convinced.
Brynda toned down acting as though she and Oswell were fond of one another a bit more, and the meal continued as they had want up until this point. Father spoke of the beauty of Harrenhal, Minisa—ever the charming and perfect hostess—boasted of its designs and divulged a few of its secrets, Hoster pretended to listen to Minisa while he couldn't help but keep his eyes from the girl. The only thing different was Oswell, who took an interest in conversing with Edwyn and listening to all his discoveries that he thought was the first. Brynda watched as Oswell conspired with her youngest brother about where to find the best worms to use as bait for fishing in the God's Eye, or scared him with the tale of the one time he nearly ran into the ghosts of one of Harren the Black's sons.
"How do you know it wasn't Harren the Black himself?" piped up Edwyn curiously.
"Because Harren the Black would never groan out of sight—every time someone sees the ghost of Harren the Black, they see his ghost writhing in flames."
"Don't say too much more, you'll scare him," teased Brynda at that moment as she saw her youngest brother's eyes grow wide with fear.
"I'm not scared! I've grown up a lot since you and Hoster went to war!" protested Edwyn, attracting everyone's attention for the nonce.
"She didn't mean to say you didn't. She's just being your protective big sister—it's what they do. Trust me—I know what they do all too well," insisted Oswell with a fleeting glance at his own sister before returning to look at Edwyn with a hint of conspiracy.
"Don't they get any better?" harrumphed Edwyn like the child he was. Brynda was about to say something when Oswell intercepted her attempt.
"Let them worry and fret, it's better than the opposite," he said almost sagely, to which Edwyn begrudgingly agreed. Brynda couldn't help but be surprised at how easily Oswell was with her little brother, and couldn't help but watch the two interact for the rest of the meal.
That night, when the cell was once again theirs—if you discounted the servant chaperoune right outside the door that was—Brynda came over to Oswell's cot and said, "Thank you," before turning around.
"For what?" asked Oswell, confused.
"For being like a… good brother to Edwyn," said Brynda.
Oswell dismissed it with a shrug, "I always wanted a younger brother, but my mother was too old to have another after me," but she thought she saw a smile work its way onto his lips in the dark.
She stood there awkwardly for a moment before saying good night and crossing the cell to her own bed. She might have imagined it, but she thought she heard him mumble his own "good night" before she laid down to sleep.
Edwyn, apparently having more freedom than at home, rushed into their cell half out of breath around midday with a fishing line that had a large bass on its end. He exclaimed how Oswell's worm advice of digging near the half melted eastern wall had helped him catch what he thought was the biggest bass in the entire God's Eye. Brynda smiled as she took the bones out of her brother's catch with a knife that Edwyn had brought. She did it expertly as she watched Oswell and Edwyn whisper and exchange tales of being the youngest brothers of the family—and such hardships they imagined that they faced. As the days passed, it became easier to pretend to like Oswell—as she felt something of an understanding and a friendship forming with the vain Bat of Harrenhal. They no longer went out of their way to try and find unnatural ways to convince their families that they were developing an attraction for one another—though reluctantly—but instead simply found excuses to speak to one another more than they were apt to in public before. Edwyn was a constant presence in their cell—appearing each day after that to play games with Oswell and the two eventually conspiring to drag Brynda into one of their silly notions—whether it be "King of the Table" or hearing how Brynda had shot down the pirate who'd nearly hacked off Hoster's head—a tale which Oswell had agreed to listen to quite attentively.
When Brynda made the announcement that she would give her consent to marry Oswell only if he beat her in an archery contest, Hoster laughed. After throwing the hard end of a loaf of bread at the stupid red beard he was growing out—since Minisa said he looked good with a beard—she gaged her father's reaction.
Lord Lucas Tully smiled knowingly at her and said, "You may have your doubts, Brynda, but I don't think you'd find a better man for you than this one here."
"If he can beat me with a bow," she emphasized.
"He'll certainly give you quite the competition," chimed in Minisa.
"Why I do believe that's the first compliment I've heard from you about my skills, sweet sister" commented Oswell sardonically.
"Oh brother dearest, when will you learn that when you deserve compliments, you get them. Your head's already big enough as it is," teased Minisa with a saucy smile, to which Brynda laughed.
"When will it be held?" asked Oswell with an odd note of sadness.
"On the morrow—no use in dragging things out I'd think," offered Hoster, to which no one else disagreed. Brynda smiled—half to play her part, and half relieved that this mummer's farce would be over soon. Oswell smiled, but like she'd noticed before it didn't reach his eyes.
And the morrow came early for Brynda. She awoke—as she always did—with the sun. She stretched herself and limbered her body in preparation for the approaching shoot. Oswell, as was his custom, slept in as late as he liked, and Brynda mused that this morning would be the last she'd have to wake seeing Oswell across the cell from her. For some reason that did not seem as great of an achievement as it had several days ago. She chastised herself the moment she recognized what those small hints were the beginnings of.
Don't go soft now. It's not like he's interested in marriage either.
Still she had an apple and a blood orange from the bowl of fruit kept out for them and watched as he slept. He looked younger when he slept—when his face wasn't stretched into some sardonic smile and his eyes weren't rolling. Not that she minded that humor—they'd had their share of quips hadn't they?
"Is it morning?" he asked lazily, when he did awake not long after she'd finished peeling the blood orange.
"Good morrow," she replied a bit formally. It would have to be something he would get used to after this after all.
"Fuck it…" he said
She gathered herself and nearly chastised him like a mother would, but stopped just short of that and settled for sounding more like an older sister, "I know you want to sleep in, but today's not the day."
"No… I wanted to wake up earlier than this," he grumbled as he ran his hands over his face.
"Why?" she asked plaintively.
Oswell was silent for a moment, before swallowing and saying, "I wanted to talk about the… competition."
She fumbled with the piece of blood orange she was separating from the rest in that moment squirting her hands with its sticky juice.
"What's there to talk about? We'll knock our arrows—you'll lose on purpose—we're free to not see each other ever again if we don't want to."
That was when he shocked her by saying, "That's just it—I'm not sure that I don't want to."
She stopped dead still at his sudden pronouncement—her heart beating fast in her throat preventing her from speaking. He looked at her expecting her to answer that. How could she answer that? That was everything they had agreed to work against! That was surrendering.
"Say something Brynda… call me stupid or addle headed… something," he implored—his eyes meeting hers—but her tongue wouldn't budge. And the moment passed in the next instance when Minisa and Hoster arrived to take them to the courtyard for the competition. Oswell looked at Brynda quite hurt before rising and steeling his face for their siblings.
Her fingers were still sticky from the blood orange as they assembled out in the courtyard and were given their choice of bows and arrows from all that Harrenhal had to offer. They were to shoot seven shots in honor of the Seven—the best shot of seven would be the victor. Oswell's arrows were fletched with yellow and black feathers, and Brynda's were fletched with red and blue. They waited for her elderly father to make his way to the spot—having hobbled out of breath on his fish-headed cane all the way to the center of the courtyard.
"Lord Tully, you didn't have to strain yourself," insisted Lady Minisa.
"Nonsense… this is a very important day in my daughter's life… of course I must be here!" insisted her father as he took the designated chair for him. And suddenly Brynda once again found herself lacking for words.
Oswell was wished for luck by Edwyn, who hoped that they would soon be goodbrothers soon. Oswell looked a bit pained by this but assured the boy he'd try his best. Hoster and Minisa watched on silently with bated breath from the ten paces behind which they stood at with the rest of the family.
The first round Oswell missed the target while Brynda's sticky fingers messed up her shot, earning her an outer ring on the target.
The next shot, Oswell matched her outer ring, while Brynda missed the target, distracted by Edwyn's cheering for Oswell.
"Now I see why you wanted an archery contest—you're both equally matched," teased Hoster.
Brynda shot him a withering glance as Oswell missed—though this time it seemed purposely done. In response, she missed on purpose as well, ticked off that he was turning the contest into a farce. He did this on each subsequent shot of his, only aggravating her further, until with only one shot left to her she threw down her bow and snapped, "You're not even trying!"
"That was the deal, wasn't it?" he sniped back, with a tone of pain in his voice.
"You could have tried!" she quipped, not caring that her voice was loud enough for their families to hear them.
"Why haven't you?" he rounded.
"You stopped trying first!"
He laughed as he said, "I stopped first? No, you did! You could have answered me!"
"Get your head out of the clouds for a moment, bat, and speak some fucking sense."
"Just before we left the cell—you could have answered me!"
"What was I supposed to say?"
"Fucking anything!"
She scoffed, "I doubt that."
"Either way, you have your final shot, take it," he said throwing down his bow and returning to where their families were.
Brynda picked up his bow and looked at the target where one shot from each had hit the target on either side of the outer rings. All she needed was one more on the target and the contest would be over. Her mind was all a blur with thoughts.
How could he just not try?
How could she just not try?
Because she'd earned all of her victories—not had them handed to her on a bloody plate like some spoiled Tyrell rose!
What's the victory?
She shook her head, trying to regain her focus, bringing herself back to the courtyard. She saw the target again, glaring it down. She took her arrow from her quiver and knocked it on her bow. A crow cawed at that moment. And so she aimed and shot towards a crow that had taken perch on a wall not too far behind the target.
"It's a tie," pronounced Hoster.
Brynda grumbled as she turned around to face their families, "Hoster, for once in your life try to not say the bloody obvious."
She saw Oswell staring at her in a confused way.
"You missed," he said rather obviously, though without looking at her.
"You were saying that you wanted to speak with me before?" she asked resolutely.
He jerked his head to speak with her alone and smiled—this one reached his eyes. When they had put enough distance between themselves and their family—who pretended to be interested in a conversation all their own, Oswell said rather bluntly, "You're fun to talk to. You get my humor and have a wicked sense of it yourself."
"That's it?" she asked incredulously.
He dared her, "No… but I want to know why you didn't take the winning shot, first."
"Because… I… I like… fuck… I mean, I enjoy your company," she stammered out, tripping over her words.
"You enjoy my company?" he laughed.
She admitted rather hastily, "Aye and I'd rather have the excuse to enjoy it further."
At this he smiled and said teasingly, though quickly fading into the sincere, "I would like the… pleasure of your company as well, rather than see you leave out of those gates."
Sensing something more she prodded further, "And?"
With a smirk he added, "And I'd like to think that whether either one of us marries or not, it's not determined from some bloody contest because that's a fucking silly story."
She punched him in the arm for that one—but not too hard.
They announced to their families to lock them back in the blasted cell since they would like some further time to think on the matter—which they of course took as a guarantee that they would marry. Minisa demanded from Hoster that he pay her the five golden dragons he owed her—which he did with half a grin on his face. Edwyn cheered quite gladly when he wasn't coughing from all the excitement, and her father just sat there with that damned knowing smile on his face. In fact he sat there with that smile for longer than was expected, and it wasn't until Edwyn had tugged on his cloak that his head fell limply to his chest. Brynda felt her blood freeze in that instant.
"Oswell, get the maester, now!" ordered Minisa as she began pulling Edwyn off of father. And Oswell was off in an instant. Hoster stared in silence—recognizing like she did the truth before their eyes.
"He's just… asleep," assured Minisa falsely to her worried younger brother as she held him back from their aged father.
The master had her father carried to his tower and only confirmed what Hoster and she had already known. Oswell was the one to find her and tell her, looking out from a tower down on the courtyard's evening light. They said nothing further as nothing needed to be said. Instead he simply stood by her side as she stood there looking at where her father had spent his last moments, as if trying to etch it forever in her mind. At some point she'd taken his hand—she didn't know how it had happened, but she wasn't sorry it happened.
Since his body wouldn't keep on the road to Riverrun without drawing every wolf in the Riverlands to their party, her father's boat was built and readied to go out onto the God's Eye. Edwyn clung to her that windy day on the beach as Hoster knocked a flaming arrow and shot it into the air, only setting half the boat aflame before handing the bow to her. Oswell took Edwyn from her as she took the bow in hand and shot and easily hit the other half, though it had now drifted to a greater distance across the God's Eye.
It was a year until both families met again, as mourning demanded. Minisa had come to Riverrun as guest to Hoster, and Oswell had ridden to offer the opportunity to take Edwyn to squire, if he was ready.
She confronted him not long after learning this by the gates of the godswood.
"You came to ask him to squire?"
He looked at her and answered her simply, "Aye."
"And nothing else?"
He smiled weakly, "We did not have the chance to… enjoy each other's company enough… I thought this way we'd have the opportunity to do so."
She punched him, and said with tears in her eyes, "You don't need the bloody excuse!"
Both she and Hoster were married to Whents by the moon's turn.
HOUSE TULLY FAMILY TREE
Lucas TULLY, Lord of Riverrun (b. 207, d. 260)
m. Ysolda WAYN (b. 218, d. 249)
-Hoster TULLY, Lord of Riverrun (b. 235, d. 300)
-m. Minisa WHENT (dies of an infection)
-Lucas TULLY (b. 262), heir to Riverrun (lives due to a butterfly effect caused by Brynda's presence in the birthing chamber)
-m. Mariya DARRY
-Amerei TULLY
-Minisa TULLY (she's exactly like her grandmother)
-Marissa TULLY
-Edwyn TULLY, Lord of Riverrun
-Catelyn TULLY (b. 263), Lady of Winterfell
-m. Eddard STARK
-Robb STARK
-Sansa STARK
-Arya STARK
-Brandon STARK
-Rickon STARK
-Lysa TULLY (b. 266), Lady of the Eyrie
-m. Jon ARRYN (is poisoned by Cersei ITTL as Lysa's relationship with Petyr is changed due to Lucas' survival)
-Jasper ARRYN
-Annalys ARRYN
-Robert ARRYN (sickly, like his Great Uncle Edwyn)
-(Two more sons who died in infancy)
-Edmure TULLY (b. 273), Lord of Maidenpool (declared lord after the Rebellion leads to the banishment of House Mooton since they were the only house to refuse to come to their liege's call)
-m. Abra Cox
-Lucas TULLY
-Catelyn TULLY
-Brynda TULLY (b. 240), Lady of Harrenhal
-m. Oswell WHENT (dies in Robert's Rebellion)
-Arwell WHENT (b. 264)
-m. Alyssa Terrick
-Edwell WHENT
-Oswell WHENT
-Elain WHENT (b. 266)
-m. Afon ROOTE
-2 daughers & 1 son
-Nerys WHENT (b. 269)
-m. Tristan RYGER
-2 sons
-Luwell WHENT (b. 271 - d. 276) (died of the pox)
-Hywell WHENT (b. 274)
-m. Lyla LOLLISTON
-3 daughters & 1 son
-Edwyn TULLY, Lord of Oldstones (b. 249 - d. 270)
-m. Perriane FREY (b. 249)
-Ysolde TULLY (b. 268)
-m. Lymond LYCHESTER
-Edmyn LYCHESTER
-Raymun LYCHESTER
-Alyn TULLY (b. 271), Lord of Oldstones (unlike his father he is quite healthy and hale, well known on the Tourney circuit as the "Red Fish")
-m. Zhoe BLANETREE
-Zylla TULLY
-Brynden TULLY
-Walder TULLY